


remember me once in a while

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wasn’t too surprised when Steve finally blurted out, quiet, sweat still cooling between them and sheets a wadded mess at the foot of the bed, “Did you think of me? When they had you? Did you—did you think I was going to come save you?”<br/>Bucky paused, not sure how to answer. He didn’t know which version of half-truth he should tell, which would hurt Steve less. Because no way around it—his answer would hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	remember me once in a while

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授權翻譯]remember me once in a while](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710110) by [biblionerd07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07), [HD2_0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HD2_0/pseuds/HD2_0)



> I must've been having some Steve/Bucky angst dreams last night or something, because I woke up with this almost fully-formed in my brain.
> 
> Now with Chinese translation [here](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-178904-1-1.html) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4710110)

Bucky could tell Steve had something he wanted to ask. No matter how broad those shoulders got, they’d always round inward when Steve’s brain was chewing on something. Once upon a time, Bucky might’ve just said _spit it out, Rogers, come on_ , but not now. Now he could see the sense in tasting your words for a while, letting them marinate in your brain before you let anyone else hear them. Most likely it was a question he didn’t want to answer, anyway, and Steve knew it and was trying to decide if his need for answers was more important than the soft way he babied Bucky sometimes.

It stretched on for days, weeks, after Bucky came back to the land of the living, a real boy who slept in a bed and ate his plate clean and washed his hair on his own. He’d see Steve glance at him, quick, from the corner of his eye, and he’d think it was finally time, but then Steve would purse his lips tight and look away instead. Bucky let him stew. He’d bubble over eventually.

So Bucky wasn’t too surprised when Steve finally blurted out, quiet, sweat still cooling between them and sheets a wadded mess at the foot of the bed, “Did you think of me? When they had you? Did you—did you think I was going to come save you?” _And I didn’t_ , he didn’t add out loud, but his face screamed it, self-loathing dripping in his voice.

Bucky paused, not sure how to answer. He didn’t know which version of half-truth he should tell, which would hurt Steve less. Because no way around it—his answer would hurt. That was part of why Steve asked, because he _wanted_ it to hurt, the self-flagellating bastard.

Bucky could say no, could point out that he didn’t even have it in him to think of Steve, wasn’t even really thinking of _himself_ , woke up not knowing his own name or Steve’s or anyone’s. Did he think Steve was going to save him? What did he know of being saved? He woke up in a cage and stayed there, a lab rat running on a wheel forever. You don’t try to escape when you don’t know you’re imprisoned. And every time he started to realize, when he started to notice things weren’t right and tried to get answers or get away, they put him in the chair and burned it away again.

They’d told him, once, gathered around him with bated breath and hard eyes, _your captain is dead_ , and they’d roared in triumph when he’d only stared. He thought they must have meant his handler before them, but he didn’t know why they were telling him; didn’t know why he should care about a captain or a death he didn’t have orders about.

It wouldn’t be a lie to tell Steve no, he didn’t think of him. But it wouldn’t entirely be the truth, either, because there were shadows in his brain all along, little dark spots of confusion when he went to drift in the sea of his own mind for too long. It was in the way he’d wake when they pulled him to the surface, hands immediately stretching out for someone not there, thoughts echoing out _if I’m this cold he must be dying_ without telling him who _he_ was or what cold meant; cold was not something he felt, then—cold was what he was. He was ice, and they sent him out when they needed the ice to be mobile, and they put him back when the job was done.

It was in the way a flash of sunlight on blond hair made him pause, even in the middle of a mission, no matter how often they wiped him and hit him and punished him and cursed him for it. It was in the way a recon job at a stadium brought to mind sharing a warm beer and a nub of pencil, fingers brushing as they passed it back and forth after each play, the feeling of callouses against his palm and warmth through his chest.

It was in the way he quieted, usually, when Pierce came toward him, that jaw simultaneously settling and disturbing something in his chest every time, a rightness but a horrible, glaring wrongness to the jut of Pierce’s chin and the bones in his hands.

It was in the way Steve had said his name, just once, on that bridge, and knocked something loose, set a screw rattling around that couldn’t be replaced even when they wiped him again, because that was the voice in his head, that was the hair in the sun, those were the fingers entwined with his. Part of him had recognized Steve in an instant, because he’d never forgotten, not really, he’d just forgotten that he _hadn’t_ forgotten, and then Steve showed up and reminded him. His hands had reached for Steve under the water and pulled him up to the surface, because that was what he remembered, what he knew, even if he wasn’t clear on the details or anything else. He didn’t know Steve’s name outside a mission briefing, but his brain and his heart and his hands knew that was _him_.

Bucky sighed, ruffling Steve’s hair a little. “You couldn’t have saved me,” he pointed out, not an answer to Steve’s question and not for one second changing Steve’s mind.

“But—” Steve started, because that was always his way in conversation; you could talk and talk and talk, but he would always come back with more, a last _but but but_.

“You got to me eventually,” Bucky cut him off. “Doesn’t matter what I thought about back then.”

And Steve, well, Steve didn’t like that at all, didn’t like knowing Bucky was dodging the question, didn’t like not sharing every thought, would probably agree to let them both get their heads cracked open if it meant they could see what was written there. But he closed his mouth.

That was a trait of the new century Steve. He stopped, sometimes, when he would’ve pushed before. It was because he knew Bucky was different, Bucky couldn’t take as much pushing now, Bucky needed to lock some things away in the back of his skull in a dark closet. But it was because Steve was different, too—he’d seen more things than he had before, lost more people (lost everyone), had his own dark closet with the door locked tight that he didn’t even open for Bucky.

It made Bucky feel bad, even if it wasn’t his fault. He used to hate the way Steve would never quit, would never stay down, but now he longed for it. So he lolled his head over and pulled up a sappy smile he knew Steve would roll his eyes over but love all the same.

“Think of you plenty now,” Bucky promised. Sure enough, Steve snorted and shook his head, but he burrowed a little closer to Bucky and kissed his shoulder. It didn’t actually dispel the gloom in Steve’s eyes, but it helped a little.

Steve wouldn’t stop thinking about it, Bucky knew. Steve wouldn’t stop blaming himself, having nightmares about Bucky crying for him while he slept under a sheet of ice in the ocean, or worse still, while he was awake in New York, making friends, eating pizza with Sam.

But Steve wouldn’t ask again. He would keep it inside, keep a lid on it, only let his guilt bleed out in his moments of weakness. For the two of them, for these days, not talking about it was all the closure they were going to get, so Bucky scratched his nails lightly over Steve’s bare stomach and sucked a little bruise into his neck that would be gone within the hour.

They wouldn’t talk about it, and they’d both pretend not to think about it, and that would have to be close enough to them getting over it. Here, now, in the new world, there were books and videos and internet talks about how to make peace with your past, how to move on, how to let time heal your wounds. But some hurdles were too high to jump, would knock you down if you even tried, and Bucky and Steve were different now, could sit on the sidelines sometimes instead of wearing themselves out trying to climb a wall too high. They could lie in bed and pretend the air was only heavy between them because of the smell of sex, could trade sleepy morning kisses like one or both of them hadn't woken up with nightmares, could look each other in the eye and ignore the ghosts lurking back there.

Steve laced his fingers through Bucky's, and Bucky committed the feeling to memory yet again. No matter what else happened, no matter how bad things got or how much Bucky's sieve-brain let slip through, he wouldn't forget that, not ever, and that would just have to be enough.


End file.
